


The Adventure of the Green Carnation

by GloriaMundi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Blow Jobs, C19, Community: kink_bingo, F/M, Genderplay, Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-24
Updated: 2010-06-24
Packaged: 2017-10-10 06:16:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaMundi/pseuds/GloriaMundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson has never much cared for Irene Adler's particular kind of beauty: but in a breeches role ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure of the Green Carnation

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to **knowmydark** for beta!

"The facts point inescapably to the Reviens club, on Greek Street," announced Holmes without preamble, coming into our sitting-room one grey afternoon in February. "Mr Clare and Mr Hart are both members; the photographs were taken in a lavishly-appointed room where neither the photographer nor Mr Hart feared discovery, for there are indications that they spent some considerable time there; and, as is obvious from the name, the Reviens club is well-known -- notorious, one might say -- for its appeal to men of a certain ... tendency."

I knew very well to which tendency Holmes referred, but this was not the time to mention it. "The name?" I said instead. "Is it not French for 'return'?"

"Oh, Watson," said Holmes, amused. "You are quite correct, and yet -- as is so frequently the case -- the point has escaped you. Rearrange the letters of 'reviens'," he added, for I must have looked befuddled, "and what does it spell?"

Oh. "Inverse," I said, and felt my face redden. I had truly never considered the name of the place: only its nature, and the company that might be found there.

"It is of no matter," said Holmes. "The nature of the images implies the nature of the establishment, and Mr Dowland, the photographer, is a man of regrettably regular habits, as I discovered from a cursory inspection of his dustbin."

"Then all that remains," I said brightly, "is to visit the club; identify the distributor of illicit copies of these compromising images, whether it is Clare or somebody else; and--"

"I fear it will not be as straightforward as all that," said Holmes. "I very much doubt that the Reviens, or its members, will give up secrets lightly: certainly not to any fellow who might wander in off the street and demand the surrender of such profitable bargaining-chips."

Holmes loathes blackmail: it is a crime on which he has waxed vitriolic on more than one occasion, and he has no sympathy whatsoever for blackmailers, however genteel they may be. I felt sure that my friend had already laid out some stratagem to take down this particular specimen of the type, but I did not care to think of him donning some louche disguise to ... well, to _penetrate _ such a den of iniquity.

"I can't let you go there alone, Holmes," I protested. "The possibility of --"

But Holmes had raised one elegant finger, silencing me as effectively as if he had placed his hand over my mouth.

"Happily, I had no intention of so doing," he assured me, with that broad untrustworthy smile that says he is in possession of facts I do not suspect. "Given the nature of the crime -- photographic prints in the possession of those who might conceivably wish to cause harm with them -- I deemed it time to call in a favour from an old friend."

I flicked a glance at his desk. The photograph of Irene Adler was upright once again, and suddenly I knew of whom Holmes spoke.

"Irene Adler is a _woman_, Holmes."

His gaze slid from mine. "Indeed she is," he murmured.

"If I am correct, the Reviens club is a club for inverts," I said bluntly. "Male inverts. Men who have little use for females, save as housemaids and ... beards." I recalled that once, I had wondered aloud if that was Irene's use for my friend. If he remembered the occasion -- as I was sure he did, for Sherlock Holmes never forgets anything -- he did not remark upon it. "Irene Adler will not be admitted past the outer door, let alone into the confidence of the members. ... Let _me_ go."

I do not know why I suggested such a thing. True, it would not be my first visit to the Reviens, but I had no intention of sharing that datum with Holmes, and no desire whatsoever for him to deduce it by observation.

"No, no, old boy: I wouldn't ask you to do something that goes against your very nature," said Holmes, flicking a quick unreadable gaze at me.

The great detective sees, but he does not always observe.

"Still," I rushed on, "at least I'm male, one qualification which Miss Adler -- I beg your pardon, is she still married? Mrs Norton, then -- cannot possibly claim."

"I think you'd be surprised," said Holmes, abruptly in great good humour. He cocked his head, and I heard footsteps on the stair outside. "In fact, I think you'll be surprised in just a moment."

As if on cue (of _course_ on cue: Holmes never can resist an opportunity for melodrama) the door opened, and a smart young man swaggered in. His shirt was Egyptian cotton; his suit of good dark wool, very fine; he wore, of all things, a green carnation in his button-hole, and if his hair had been darker and his eyes less lively he would have been the very image of Mr Oscar Wilde, with whom ... but I digress.

I am ashamed to say that it took me a second glance to recognise Irene Adler. In my defence, she wore a remarkably convincing moustache, and her hair was shorter than I had ever seen it, cut and combed in a style much in vogue with young men about town. I could smell cologne on her. Still: Irene.

"Miss Adler," I said stiffly.

"Very nice," said Holmes, circling her as though she were some singular artwork in a gallery, looking her up and down with the same appreciation that I have seen him bestow upon a piece in the British Museum's sculpture rooms. "Mr ... Norton, was it not?"

"Yes, Holmes," said Irene fondly. Even her voice was different: an octave deeper than I had expected. "It seemed ... simplest. And I shall be James, not Godfrey, so there should be no confusion."

"I take it you understand what will be needed?"

"I am to enter the club; avail myself of a glass of wine; enquire as to the whereabouts of Mr Clare; and indicate that I have seen the photographs," said Irene, still in that unsettling alto. "Which, I should add, I have not. Perhaps --"

"Under no circumstances," said Holmes sharply. "They are not fit for a lady's eyes."

Irene narrowed her eyes. "The purpose of my enquiries," she went on silkily, "is simply to express my admiration for the artistry involved, and to enquire where I might avail myself of similar works. And if Mr Clare -- or his representative -- will not tell me?"

"He will tell you," said Holmes. "If he is indeed the blackmailer, he will be only too happy to lure another innocent into his snares. And if he is not, he will certainly know who sent the letter to Mr Hart."

"I am flattered that you think me an innocent, Mr Holmes," said Irene, smiling at my friend with considerable warmth.

I cleared my throat, and was about to interject some commonplace observation -- for I found the tension between my friend and Miss Adler disconcerting in the extreme -- when there came a knock on the door. It was a message-boy, with a telegram for Holmes.

"Mr Hart urgently requests my presence," said Holmes, crumpling the flimsy paper in his fist and scowling fearsomely.

"Has there been some development?" I enquired.

"He does not say. Only that he must see me at once. Well, there's nothing for it: I must go. Watson, I fear I must ask you to assist Miss Adler -- I beg your pardon, _Mr Norton _ \-- in whatever he requires."

"But of course," I said gallantly, though I had little affection for Irene Adler, having seen the deleterious effects of her company on my friend.

With a hasty farewell and an admonition to take care -- I was not sure if this was meant for Irene or myself -- Holmes was gone, and I was alone in our flat with Irene Adler, got up in the role of a personable young invert.

"It is fortunate," I observed, "that Holmes is so very certain of us both."

* * *

"It's only another breeches role," Irene had said. "Really, Doctor, it'll be fine. Don't worry."

But that had been more than an hour ago, while the hansom cab rattled down Greek Street, and I had become increasingly anxious about whatever was transpiring behind the glossy black door of the Reviens Club. My mind kept returning to the insistent telegram that had summoned Holmes to Mr Hart. I feared that there had been some development in the case to which neither myself nor Miss Adler -- Mr James Norton -- was privy. Perhaps the blackmailer -- Clare, or Dowland, or some third party? -- had learnt of Holmes' involvement. Perhaps Irene had walked into a trap.

It was no use. Regardless of my personal feelings concerning Miss Adler (not to mention the risk of encountering somebody who might recognise me from my previous visits to the Reviens club) I could not let a woman -- _the_ woman -- face danger and discovery alone.

I adjusted my cravat, tweaked my hat to a cockier angle, and strolled boldly up to the entrance. Old Gerald would pretend not to know the Prime Minister: I trusted his discretion. I paid my crown, his eyes passing over me with no sign of recognition, and was admitted.

The Reviens club is notable for its opulent decor as much as for the depravities which may be found within. I lowered my gaze, not wishing to meet the eyes of any of the gentlemen in attendance this evening, and made my way through the entrance hall to the rooms beyond. Where might I find Miss Adler? She was not in the main gallery, nor in the restaurant (today they were serving duck) nor in the reading-room. With a sinking heart I realised that she must be closeted in some private room -- perhaps with the blackmailer, perhaps with the victim, perhaps with some hired thug who would strip off her clever disguise to reveal --

The private rooms opened off a long hallway lined with black-and-white damask. I paused before each closed door, listening, and I confess that some of what I heard surprised me. But it was not until the very end of the corridor, room fourteen, that I ran my quarry to ground.

"Sir, I must protest," came Irene's voice, that low contralto that might be a young man's tenor. "I assure you that my intention was only to discover the artist responsible for such tasteful photography. I am no newspaper reporter, nor am I here to do any harm."

It was, I supposed, only half a lie.

"Of course you would say that," said a voice I did not know, silky and elegant. "And it may even be the truth. But the photographer is very particular about the gentlemen of his acquaintance."

I had heard enough: I flung the door open, strode in, and halted abruptly as though surprised to find the room occupied.

"Mr Norton!" I cried. "I had hoped to find you here, but I confess I had begun to think it a forlorn hope. --Sir, I do not believe I have had the pleasure." This to the other man, a tall blond fellow with piercing blue eyes, whom I was sure concealed some weapon beneath his marvellously tailored coat.

Irene's green carnation was no longer in her buttonhole: it had been crushed into the Turkey carpet, a smear of leaves and petals that clashed with the red and gold pattern. Irene herself was shooting me a dark sidelong look, but her lips curved into a smile beneath that ridiculous moustache, and she said sweetly, "Mr Wilson! What an unexpected surprise. This is Mr Charles Garner, who has been so very kind as to inform me about some of the more ... unusual services available here."

"I should be distressed to think that I was interrupting," I said, hoping that Irene had the wit to answer the underlying question.

"Of course not," said Irene. "I am quite content with what I have learned, and believe Mr Garner has pressing business this evening. Though I do hope to renew our acquaintance at some other time," she added, graciously.

Mr Garner looked as though he might object to this casual dismissal. "Perhaps you and I might ... renew our own acquaintance?" I said hastily to Irene before Garner could argue the point.

"That would be most pleasant," she murmured, lowering her eyes: her expression was incendiary, and the juxtaposition of her feminine wiles and her masculine role made me want ... I cannot say what I wanted.

"Then I shall leave you to enjoy your evening," said Mr Garner, with something of a sneer. "Mr Norton, please do call upon me at your earliest convenience: I hope to be able to oblige you by facilitating an introduction to the gentleman of whom we spoke. My card."

The slip of pasteboard passed from his hand to hers, and was secreted within her jacket. Then Garner sauntered past me, looking me up and down as blatantly as though I were some Piccadilly unfortunate, and was gone. The door clicked shut behind him.

"Well," said Irene. "I am most grateful for your presence, I must say. But," she went on before I could warn her that Mr Garner (whose footsteps would have been inaudible on the thick carpet of the hallway) might still be within earshot, "I believe that, despite some initial unpleasantness, I have the information that I came for. It is not Mr Clare whom we seek, but --"

My spine was prickling. I was certain that we were being observed: that Mr Garner, with his appraising looks and his disquieting air of prurience, had not gone far. I put my hands on Irene's shoulders and pulled her close so that, under the guise of intimacy, I could whisper in her ear. "I think your informant is watching us."

"Oh," breathed Irene. We held onto one another, each stealing quick looks at the walls, the door (which was firmly shut), the curtain that covered the window. There was something odd about that curtain, swaying gently in some intangible draught, and it took me a little while to determine the nature of that oddity. Of course, it was absurdly simple: my sense of direction, my knowledge of where north lies, has always been excellent, and I knew that the curtain was on the east wall of the building -- but to the east, the old town house that had become the Reviens club abutted another such building. There could be no window on that wall: and that was no draught that stirred the heavy crimson damask, I was certain: it was an unseen presence, watching to see that we were ...

My companion followed the direction of my gaze, and I could almost see the calculation in her fine eyes. "Perhaps, dear Mr Wilson," murmured she, _sotto voce_, "we should ensure that they see only what they expect." And before I could raise any objection -- though several immediately sprang to mind -- I was being kissed, chastely but firmly, on the mouth, with that ludicrous moustache rubbing and snagging against my own and a slender body pressing against me from chest to knee.

I had never found Irene Adler especially captivating: her particular kind of beauty left me unmoved. (In truth, there have been only a very few women whose physical charms have aroused me in any carnal sense. Miss Morstan is, I am happy to say, no exception: I should not wish to sully the tranquil partnership of an ideal marriage with those excesses to which the male physiology is subject. ) But 'Mr Norton' ... when I looked at her (at him), I had to remind myself that this was a notorious female criminal, a feted mezzo-soprano who had outwitted my friend Sherlock Holmes on one occasion. Or, at least, on one occasion that he will admit to.

Mr Norton's red mouth -- small for a man -- and delicacy of movement had awakened some atavistic, primal desire within me. I did not wish to be locked in this opulent chamber with her. _Him_. I must think of my companion as a man, or I would betray us both to whatever unseen observer lurked behind the curtain. And if we were observed, then we must play our roles: a man about town and his young ... friend.

"Really, John," said Norton. "It's hardly my first time, old boy, and you've nothing I haven't seen before." And the corner of his mouth twitched in a smile that reminded me, more than anything, of Holmes when he is making some joke at my expense.

"This is neither the time nor the place --" I began, but then Norton had dropped to his knees in front of me, gazing up at me from under long lashes, mouth parted, lips wet where he'd licked them.

My body's reaction was, despite my best intentions, beginning to make itself known.

"I can't!" I said, low and insistent. "They're --"

"_I_ don't mind being watched ," said Norton. His fingers began to work, rather clumsily, at the buttons of my trousers. "In fact, I'm quite accustomed to it. And besides, it will add ... verisimilitude." This last assurance was conveyed in a hissing whisper: I thought it would not be audible to anyone but myself.

"I--" I had been about to say Irene's name, and she must have known it. _He_. _He_, Mr Norton, must have known it. I would expire of mortification, of frustration, of some indistinct emotion that had to do with Holmes and his unknowable mind, if I let myself remember that the person kneeling in front of me, the person whose soft manicured hands were freeing my member from my underclothes, the person who was grinning up at me ...

"Very well, Mr Norton," I said, and if my voice came hoarse and strangled, I hoped it would be taken for mere arousal.

It had, in my own defence, been a while since I had allowed myself such an indulgence. I scarcely even permitted the thought of such an act to cross my mind when I was alone in my bed, tending to the needs of my body and fixing my mind as firmly as I might on personages who were not the true object of my desires. My succubi -- incubi, if I am honest -- never sported black hair, nor a dark piercing gaze, nor that particular quirk of the mouth when amused; they did not reek of tobacco and bay rum and gunpowder and sulphuric acid; their hands were not long, elegant, scarred with --

At this point I groaned, for Norton's caresses were remarkably adept, and I found myself fully aroused rather sooner, and more urgently, than I had expected. Norton was nothing like Holmes, but that was for the best. (I tried my utmost to drive from my imagination the notion of Norton performing this self-same service upon my friend. Surely they had never ...?)

I confess that my thoughts became unstructured, random, wordless when Norton's mouth touched me. Delicate, yes, but not gentle: Norton had done this before, in truth, and in all likelihood more than occasionally. His small hand wrapped confidently around my shaft, his lips caressed, his teeth closed just enough for me to feel them: his tongue, oh, his tongue --

Dimly, from somewhere outside the room, I heard a low exclamation: then a scuffling sound that might have been an altercation, or merely our voyeur angling for a better view. I was in agony lest the door should open now, _now_, just as Norton's hand came up to join that devilish mouth, just as I was ... was ...

Norton glanced up at me from beneath those improbable lashes, his eyes warm with humour: he winked at me, just that, and I was overcome. I bit my fist to muffle my cry as I spent.

The ebb of my climax left me dizzy, panting, at a loss. Norton wiped his mouth and grinned up at me. In such a situation, I would usually have thanked my partner, have offered a reciprocal favour or at least a caress: but I was paralysed by the cold realisation of what I -- what we -- had done, and the idea that Garner (and perhaps others) had watched us as we did it. I could scarcely believe that I was not hallucinating, or delirious: that this was no shameful dream but a matter of fact, a piece of play-acting to preserve our identities and perhaps our lives.

"Thank you," I managed at last.

"My pleasure," murmured Norton. _Irene_. Good heavens, I had let ... she had ...

I wanted to be sick. No, that was not it: but I did not know what I wanted. My pulse was still hammering with sexual excitement: I could not stop staring at my companion as he -- she -- gently made me presentable, buttoned my fly, and took the handkerchief from my breast-pocket to attend to her own toilet.

"Holmes --" I began, meaning to insist that he must never know what had passed between us: and at that very instant, with the impeccable dramatic timing that I had, on other occasions, found so engaging, the door opened and in strode Sherlock Holmes himself.

It was clear from the sharpness of his gaze, and the way his eyes flicked from myself to Irene and back again, that he knew precisely what had occurred between us. Perhaps _he_ had been the voyeur, I thought, and the queasiness that roiled in my gut was tempered by a frisson of excitement at the possibility.

I quelled that sentiment firmly. I could hope, at best, that he would understand the need to dissemble, to act out our parts for our hypothetical audience. At worst ... at worst he might imagine that Irene and I had willingly entered into such debauchery, despite his own interest in the woman. No: that would not be the worst that could happen. At worst he might deduce those aspects of my personality, those habits of body and mind, which I had been at such pains to conceal from him.

"We have the information you require," said Irene, suddenly and disconcertingly businesslike, handing Mr Garner's card to Holmes. "Mr Dowland, it seems, has been in league with Mr Garner for some years. I assume from your presence that there is no longer any danger of our being discovered here?"

"There is not," said Holmes. "Mr Hart had come into possession, via an anonymous letter, of Garner's name, along with a comprehensive list of the ... commercial transactions he had engaged in since January. As soon as he conveyed that data to me -- which was by no means as straightforward a procedure as one might think -- I wired the Yard and made my way here as quickly as might be." His penetrating gaze rested upon me for a moment. "There was, it seems, no need for such haste. I should have trusted Watson to be in command of the situation."

"I merely ..." I began, but had no clear notion of how to acquit myself. Fortunately, Inspector Lestrade chose this moment to arrive, and by the time Holmes had introduced Irene ("Mrs Norton, a noted thespian") and outlined the facts of the case, I had mastered myself once more.

Norton -- Irene -- remained enviably composed. If she was discomfited by the presence of an inspector from Scotland Yard, or by the realisation that her erstwhile admirer Sherlock Holmes had in all likelihood witnessed her performing ... performing _fellatio_ upon me, there was nothing in her serene smile to betray her thoughts. She shook Lestrade's hand with a charming and utterly feminine dip of her head, and looked up from under her eyelashes at him (my spent prick twitched at the memory thus evoked) when he gruffly thanked her for her part in the apprehension of that notorious blackmailer Charles James Garner.

"It was not the most difficult role I have ever played," she demurred. "In my profession, Inspector, I have been required to assume many masks."

"May I be permitted to escort you to your hotel, Mrs Norton?" said Lestrade, clearly charmed, and utterly oblivious to 'Mrs Norton's' true identity. Holmes busied himself with the concealing curtain at the other end of the room, the set of his shoulders speaking eloquently of his disdain.

"I should be delighted," said Irene. "I am at the Grand. Good evening, Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson. A pleasure, as always." She acknowledged our responses -- my own, I fear, rather less than polished -- with a dip of her head and a smile, and with considerable poise took Lestrade's arm and let herself be led away.

Holmes rose languidly to his feet. "Close the door, will you, Watson?"

"I beg your pardon?" In that moment I was almost afraid of my friend, for he had turned that formidable focus upon me, and was frowning at me as though I were some case to be resolved.

"We must discuss the ... the case. And this is as private a venue as any," said Holmes.

"The case," I said flatly, not moving. I had no intention of locking myself into this room with Sherlock Holmes: the thought of what he must have witnessed without my knowledge was making me dizzy.

Holmes huffed impatiently, strode over to the door, closed it and leant against it, regarding me keenly.

"I apologise for my actions," I said at once. "In my defence, it seemed the only way to ensure that our purpose was not revealed." It would not be the act of a gentleman to blame Irene, although I very much wanted to say that it had been her idea. _The woman tempted me, and I did ..._. But then, there had been nothing womanly about her fifteen minutes before.

Holmes was still staring at me, as though he was expecting me to say something else. I could not imagine what that might be. What was the use of pretence? What purpose could there be in discussion? If he had seen my face, he had surely recognised that the act was not a novelty for me.

"I could not watch," said Holmes, his voice low and ragged.

I bowed my head. "If I had realised that you had arrived at the club, the whole mess might have been avoided. As it is, I apologise unreservedly for subjecting you to such a depraved --"

"You misunderstand me, Watson," said Holmes. "When I said I could not watch, it was not because of any revulsion upon my part."

"Miss Adler acted of her own free will," I said, rather churlishly. "I swear I did not suggest ... I know that she means a great deal to you: I would not for the world have --"

"Watson, might I suggest that you adjourn your apologies until I have explained my meaning?" There was sheer exasperation in Holmes' voice, and I welcomed it: better that than disgust.

"By all means," I said. "Or perhaps we might continue this conversation elsewhere? I confess I find this room somewhat claustrophobic."

"I shall be happy to discuss the matter further once we have returned to Baker Street," snapped Holmes. "But I cannot have you continue in your misapprehension any longer: it pains me to see you so ... reduced, old boy."

The warmth in his tone, the offhand affection of that sobriquet, made me want to punch him. I restrained myself with an effort. "Then pray do explain yourself," I said coolly.

"When I said that I could not watch, you imagined that I was revolted by what I saw. Once I had corrected that false impression, you somehow leapt to the conclusion that I was jealous because Irene had ... bestowed such a favour upon you."

I was blushing again: I could not look at him.

"You were wrong," said Holmes softly. "And yet, Watson, you were right. I was jealous."

"But you just said--"

"Hear me out, if you please. I was not jealous of you as the recipient of the favour." He made it sound as though Irene and I had done nothing more improper than sharing a cigarette. "I was jealous of Irene."

"I fear I do not take your meaning," I said. It was not wholly a lie, for although my heart had leapt at one possible -- yet surely ludicrous -- interpretation of his words, I was incapable of believing that my friend would say such a thing. And now I _had_ to look at him, in the hope that some nuance of his expression or posture would clarify the matter.

"Watson, Watson, Watson," said Holmes with a chuckle, staring down at the rich colours of the carpet. He raised his eyes to mine. "It is simple enough, though I see it has confounded you: is it so very improbable that I, too, should wish to be permitted such intimacies with you? Come home with me to Baker Street, and I shall attempt to elucidate, to demonstrate, to expli--"

But then he could not speak, because I was kissing him.

-end-


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